


Need

by bixgirl1



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, BDSM, Dark, HP: EWE, Hopeful Ending, Love, M/M, Post-Hogwarts, Punishment, Unhealthy Relationships
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-10
Updated: 2017-02-10
Packaged: 2018-09-23 05:22:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,731
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9642485
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bixgirl1/pseuds/bixgirl1
Summary: "Hurt me, Malfoy," is how it starts.  "You know you want to."You wondered, even then, if that was still true.





	

**Author's Note:**

> All characters are the sole property of JK Rowling and associated publishers. I make no profit from this work of fiction.
> 
> A deep and heartfelt thanks go out to my betas, snowgall and carpemermaid, whose comments and notes were lovely and helpful, particularly since I think I shocked the hell out of both of them with this departure in style and content. LOL. You guys are awesome. 
> 
> This is much, much darker than I usually write, so please be aware of tags.

_Hurt me_ , Malfoy, is how it starts. _You know you want to_.

You wondered, even then, if that was still true.

You take your time deciding what he needs each night he visits because each night is different. He will have come from a Ministry party or a school dedication ceremony; he will be slightly tipsy from beers with his friends, the smell of alcohol wafting out of his pores even after you make him shower. You listen to his entreaties and look over the tools he brings, but the choice is ultimately left up to you.

He sometimes asks for it dry; he always wants it hard. He begs for hexes cast across his back, and charmed flames to dance over his skin. It causes the smell of charred flesh to permeate the room for days after, no matter how many freshening spells you cast. You refuse the cursed knives that will cause permanent scar damage and bloodlet him in a way more gently than he craves, with your nails or your wand; his blood reminds you of ribbons around a brightly-wrapped present. He asks you to fill him with your whole hand; he wants it to hurt in all of the ways you no longer wish him to. He wants you to make him pay for all of the things he was never able to do, and never acknowledge all that he’s done.

Whenever he reads the hesitation on your face, he doesn’t say, _you owe me_. He doesn’t say _your life is mine to command_ , because he wants to pretend that’s not true. He simply says _Please. Please, Malfoy_. And your voice brooks no argument when you tell him to get on the bed in a tone that makes him quiver with desire.

So, you sometimes take him dry and hard until his own blood creates a lubricant. You cast Stinging hexes, deeper and deeper, bringing white-green lines to the surface of his flesh that will eventually throb an angry red while you pound into him. You put four fingers in him—you cannot make yourself go further. His face contorts in relief, despite the fact that you want to hold him close; despite the fact that you want to love him tenderly. His arse is loose and swollen when you’re finished and you praise him for being brave; you ask him how he feels although he’s come twice.

You tie him up with ropes spilling from your wand, and while he could get out of them, he never tries. You eschew toys and tools to instead mark him with your teeth, biting deep into the cords of his throat, the meat of his thigh, until bruises blossom like flowers under his skin, until he squirms and pleads for a single touch. He is all sinew and marred flesh, and beautiful in his pain.

He bows his head low and asks you to humiliate him.  You find yourself surprised because part of you has been sure the last year has been an exercise in humiliation for _you_. When you’re silent for too long, he starts to leave and you find yourself calling him a _cockslut;_ you find yourself calling him a _whore_ , just so he’ll stay. He does. You tell him he’s a degenerate, unworthy of love. You laugh over how many people he was unable to save. You mock him with taunts learned from your father’s tongue, and feel ill inside. And when you tell him to kiss your Mark, he doesn’t pull back as though it’s a violation; he kisses it with an open mouth and makes a noise like the agony of sex while he comes, saliva slick on the inside of your forearm.

You do not let yourself think about how naturally this comes to you, this causing of pain, this cruelty bred into your bones. Instead, you remind yourself that this is where he lets his smile fall off like a mask and allows all of his burning intensity to be on display; this is where his affability pools around his feet like his Invisibility Cloak when it no longer touches his skin. This is what he needs, he tells you, and you believe him for better or worse. You have never once doubted who is truly in charge.

He lets you make love to him, once. You tell him _Shhh_ ; you murmur _Trust me_ ; you whisper _You can_. You press kisses along his sweaty torso, down his flank, and take your time worshipping his cock with your mouth without using your teeth. You work him slowly, one finger, two, and he unfurls open like a flower seeking the sunlight. You kiss his mouth with a slowly seeking tongue; you taste him like he is the most exquisite wine. You spread his thighs and lick into his hole gently and he writhes above you, his hands seeking your hair, his whole body trembling in your clasp as he comes. And then, later, when you move inside of him, he holds you close and calls out your name. _Draco_ , he cries. _Draco_.

You comb your fingers through his hair and kiss his scar and hold him until he sleeps, and when you wake up in the early morning hours, he is gone.

You don’t hear from him for five months.

His owls cease; his burning green gaze doesn’t lock with yours in public. You are nothing to him now that you’ve shown him your heart; you are nothing now that he’s allowed you to see his. You hate him then, again, with a vicious pettiness you have not felt in years. Yet, you cannot help but remember that for long hours he had lain in your arms, panting with a pleasure that shared no blurred line with pain. That he called you by name and allowed you to say his, which you only said once. _Harry_.

When he finally returns, he isn’t wearing a glamour and you are in bed with another man, who recognizes him. You calmly _Obliviate_ the stranger and send him on his way.

Still sticky with sweat and come, you command Harry to lick you clean and he moans as he drops to his knees to obey you. He keeps his eyes open as he kneels between your spread thighs, tongue traveling the planes and angles of your body until it is no longer sweat and come that coats you, but his saliva instead. You press his face hard into the mattress as you shove your cock into his arse with no prep the way he wants; he offers it up to you, silently begging more. His fingers are lax on the sheets as you come, as though he will not allow himself to show the slightest resistance. Then you force him to orgasm three times in rapid succession, although you know after the second how sensitive his cock must be by the twist in his expression.

You beat him with a cane rather than let him float in the aftermath; the welts that rise are split in the middle by the force of your arm and he takes it as his just punishment. It’s the first time you mean it, the whistle of the cane splitting the air and the crack as it meets the backs of his thighs. You let yourself hate him again as your arm gets sore and even then he does not use the safeword you’ve insisted on.

Later, you carefully clean the blood away and lay a compress against his thighs. You bring him water—he swallows two glasses gratefully—and drape him over yourself, wrapping him in your arms. _I’m sorry,_ he says, over and over. You don’t ask him what for.

You stop seeing other men again. He shows up to your flat five nights out of seven. You use crops. You use floggers. You whip his balls with a gentle flick of your wand until they are engorged and he can barely come. You bind his wrists so tightly that the sturdy bones crack, and he refuses healing until his orgasm as ripped through him, obliterating his senses. You make him bend awkwardly, hands and feet pressed flat against the floor, until his muscles cramp as you work his foreskin over his erection for over an hour with your hand, not allowing him to climax.

When you are finished, he allows aftercare, and this is why you stay. This is why you do not say _no_ although the word presses against the roof of your mouth, against the back of your front teeth, like a noxious potion waiting to be spat out. He lets you tend to his injuries with cotton bath sheets soaked in essence of Murtlap. He eats food from your hand, berries and melons and bits of thick bread smeared with cheese. He occasionally touches your hair, almost shyly, catching bits of it between his thumb and forefinger and rubbing them together as if testing the quality of fabric. And you talk.

You talk, in the early morning hours. You talk about useless, mundane things; you tell him about the Ministry job you don’t need, but enjoy. You recount the things you enjoy doing in the summer: swimming, flying. You tell him about growing up with peacocks that you used to treat like puppies.

You talk like you always do at the end of the night.  Impossibly, you hear him laugh, and then he offers more of himself than he usually does; little things, like how he always wanted a dog; bigger things, like how he still has to borrow an owl to courier messages, because he doesn’t ever think he’ll be able to replace Hedwig. He begins other sentences that he never finishes: _I never thought I… That event tonight… I missed… I don’t want… I need…_ When he leaves, hours later, his expression is flat and worn, but he always thanks you before he departs and allows you to cup his cheek in the palm of your hand.

One night, he shows up with his face like a wound. His eyes make you think of _Avada Kedavra_ , and not simply because of their colour. He kisses you desperately before you have a chance to speak, his tongue surging against yours, his hands scrabbling at your pyjama top. His fingers are on your cock and you still don’t understand what’s going on. You’re soft but swell rapidly under his ministrations; he drops to his knees like he always does, and it’s somehow so different. When you are about to come, he pulls away and tells you he wants to fuck you.

He has never asked to top, not once, but of course you won’t say no. Your heart is in your throat and you swallow it down until it sinks to the vicinity of your stomach like a rock. You are afraid of what he will do to you—you have never liked the giving or receiving of pain—but his face is urgent, his black hair like a raven’s wing under your gentle hand.

You don’t ask him to prepare you, but he does. He slides his fingers inside you with the same care he shows when greeting children. They are slick and warm and he tells you he wants you on your back; he says he wants to be able to look at your face. He breaches you slowly and there is pain—you haven’t been topped in the two years he has been coming to your flat. But it is a pain you have longed for; it is nothing you don’t want. Your cock is trapped between your bellies as he strokes in and out of you. Sweat creates an ease of friction against your stomach and his, and you cry out as he fucks you harder, your legs held splayed over his forearms. You think his sweat is dripping onto your face until you look up from where you’re joined and see that he is crying. You reach up with no leverage and kiss his falling tears, tasting salt.  He groans that he wants to come inside you just before he does, the warm rush of fluid coaxing your own orgasm to the surface as his cock throbs inside your channel. You come hard; the liquid pools between you, sticky and uncomfortable.  It is just right, and you don’t reach for your wand to cast a cleaning charm.

You lay side by side, not touching, when he pulls out. The silence is too loud to bear, and in your marrow you know you cannot do this again, not after tonight. You love him too much now to be the dark thing that he needs.

You say _I can’t hurt you, anymore_. You tell him, _I’m sorry I ever did_. You swallow hard and admit, _I want better for you than that_. You whisper, _please don’t come to me again unless you want something more_. You don’t tell him you love him. You don’t think you have to.

His face is still wet as he slants you a look sideways and says simply, _I know_. He kisses your brow and murmurs, _I won’t_. He dresses, and you let him leave.

This time, he is gone for a year.

The papers speculate on the reasons for his absence although his whereabouts are known. He has gone to Australia. You wish you knew if he is escaping you, or himself.

Worry haunts you. You do not want him to be alone, but you fear that he has found someone to replace you—someone who has no limits, someone who will fill him with his whole hand and give him scars that will never fade. For the first two months after his disappearance, you drink too heavily and too often to erase the images of a man who does not love him treating him hatefully.

You see Granger at a bar one night and even though she is surrounded by other Gryffindors, you approach. She is surprised, but kind, and gives you a look that makes you think she knows more than she says when you ask how Potter is doing. She says, _Fine, Malfoy. He’s fine_. You don’t know whether to believe her. On your way out, she shows up again and stays you with a firm hand on your sleeve. _He really is okay_ , she murmurs, softly. _He’s getting better, I think. I’ll tell him you asked after him._

 _Don’t_ , you tell her when you can speak, relief washing over you like the tide. _He wouldn’t want to know_.

You read about his return in the papers, but he does not venture out in public. There is no more holding of babies in Diagon Alley, there are no more signing of autographs. The papers report that he turns down most invitations now. There are some grainy photographs of him tending his garden and you drink them in hungrily, watching the muscles of his forearm move as he circles his wand over weeds, watching him kneel for a reason other than supplication.

You finally see him at a Ministry function. He is speaking to the Minister and smiling, but the lines around his mouth are soft; his face is not the brittle thing it had become when surrounded by people. Your mouth grows dry as his eyes meet yours. His eyes are alight but no longer burning and you stare at him as you lose thread in the conversation being held around you. He looks back at you calmly and, after a while, dips his chin in acknowledgement. You nod back, a bitter ache in the back of your throat, and hurry away.

The following morning, you are having your tea when a knock comes at the door. He has always used your floo, but you know. Your heart shudders with a want so deep you can barely bring yourself to walk into your entryway.  He is there, on your doorstep, holding a paper bag from a nearby bakery.

He is so beautiful you want to cry. He looks whole and healthy. His expression is guarded but not blank. You barely know what to hope for.

You say, _I meant what I said_.

He smiles, and it reaches his eyes. He holds up the bag like an offering and says, _I’m glad_.

You let him in.

**Author's Note:**

> I would like to say that I make no judgment on those who engage in a BDSM lifestyle. This work is more about what unhealthy relationships can cost us, particularly that which we cannot afford. I hope I didn't offend anyone, or imply that certain aspects of sexuality or sexual release are inherently bad or dark because that certainly was not my intention.
> 
>  
> 
> Thank you so much for reading. Comments are lovely.


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